Lucien Blake's schooldays
by NancyMay
Summary: An occasional series delving into the early years of the doctor, from the death of his mother through his time at boarding school. There may be adventures, certainly mischief but the first chapter is an introduction.
1. Chapter 1

This is the beginning of an occasional series. Having started one for the Lady Detective, Phryne Fisher, I wondered if it was possible to do something similar for Lucien, so, here's the first, introductory chapter. New chapters will be published as the muse strikes.

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He rolled the watch around in his small hand, 'Do your best', it said. A week ago he was told his mother had passed away, three days later he was standing at the side of a grave watching them lower a coffin down - she was gone. He would never see her again, never feel her hold him, smell the oil paint and turpentine on her, or watch her paint, see the scraps of gold leaf float on the warm air from the fire and make stars on the ceiling in the studio, now locked. The best he got were hugs from Nell and Agnes Clasby - his father got glares from them. He had heard them both argue with him not understanding what they were saying until now - now as he sat in the car, his trunk on the back seat, heading to Melbourne, to a school that would become his new home - he felt so utterly and completely alone.

The taxi took him to the station, where the driver had been instructed to put him in charge of the guard until he got to his destination, where, apparently, he would be handed over to a schoolmaster he had never met.

As the miles rolled by he wondered what he had done wrong, to be sent away from all he knew. From his home, his father, his friends - Matthew Lawson, even Patrick Tyneman, he'd even miss him. This was the only time he allowed himself to shed the tears he had held back, except in his bedroom, but he had not cried in front of his father.

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Lucien Radcliffe Blake, aged ten years, stood on the platform with the guard, next to his trunk. The station was busy, people of all shapes and sizes bustled about, some knocking into him, most trying to avoid him. The guard gripped his shoulder, as if his charge should suddenly bolt, apart from the last hug from the Clasby's this was the nearest to human comfort he had had in the last couple of days.

"Blake? Lucien Radcliffe," the man, tall and thin, loomed over him.

He could only nod in reply, his mouth dry, his throat tight.

"This way," he hefted the trunk onto his shoulder, even he could see it was far too big for the child to move himself. "I'm Greaves, porter and general handyman around the school, you need anything , son, you let me know," he looked down and winked.

"I thought you were one of the masters, sir," Lucien swallowed, "that's what I was told."

"Teaching," he stowed the trunk in a car, 'and giving the lads grief,' he thought to himself, "I'll take you there, stow your trunk and take you to the Master."

Lucien climbed into the car thinking that maybe this man would be a friend, because at that moment he didn't think he had any others.

He spent the journey taking in the sights of the city. He'd been to Melbourne before, with one or both of his parents, but usually to get more art equipment for his mother, or new clothes.

They pulled into a gateway where Greaves got out of the car. Lucien made to move but he shook his head.

"Just got to open the gates, son," he smiled, "then it's the long drive up to the school."

Lucien looked ahead and could just see a building that seemed to spread along the edge of a vast green space. As they drew closer the building grew larger - spreading sideways from a central arched doorway - three rows of windows separated by ornate pillars every third window. The honey coloured stone was warm and inviting, but the little boy was under no illusion that that would be the only inviting thing about the school.

He shivered in the entrance hall, it was vast, high ceilings, cold black and white tiled floor and dark doors leading to goodness knew where.

"Sit there, lad," Greaves pointed to a hard chair by one of the doors. This door, at least had a brass name-plate on it, 'Professor A Carlton-Jones B. Ed,' and underneath that, 'Headmaster.'

Greaves knocked on the door and entered when a disembodied voice commanded he do so.

Lucien could hear mutterings and mumblings through the heavy wood of the door, then it opened and Greaves came out.

"In you go, Blake," he said gently, sweeping his hand over the boy's head and removing his cap, handing it to him as he stumbled forward.

Lucien gripped his cap as he stood before Professor Carlton-Jones. The man before him was grey haired and sported a magnificent handle-bar moustache. His hair was thick and wavy, held in place with some kind of pomade. He had blue eyes under bushy eyebrows as grey as his hair. But, underneath the moustache was a generous mouth that was trying not to smile, too soon.

"Hmm ..." he looked up and linked his hands together, his elbows leaning on the desk, "Lucien Blake."

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Well, young man," he picked up a piece of paper, a letter. Lucien recognised the headed paper his father used in the surgery, "your father seems to think you need some discipline, some order," he looked up.

Lucien didn't know what to say to this. He had attended school in Ballarat, attained good marks in his work, but had been 'cautioned' about some of the pranks he and some of his friends got up to. Frogs in one of the teacher's desks, and discovering that, when the ingredients for the ink were mixed together they could be lit with a match. The line of newly filled inkwells on the window sill in the classroom, looking like little candles, bore testament to that.

"This school is not a prison, lad," he thought the two pranks his father had offered as reason for the boy requiring stricter schooling were just that, pranks. No one was harmed, "we will educate you, help you choose the right path and teach you self reliance. Punishments are decided dependant on the severity of the crime, from detentions through learning in isolation, punishment runs round the field, and finally the cane." He stood up, towering over the child, he was tall and rather well built, quite imposing. Gathering his cap and gown he told Lucien he would give him a tour of the school before ending up at the San, or Sanatorium, where the school nurse, known as Matron, would show him to his dormitory and help him settle in.

"Any questions?"

Lucien blinked, grown-ups didn't usually ask for questions, they usually told him 'not now, Lucien,' or shushed him. Maman had answered what questions she could, while teaching him French and the beginnings of the piano.

"Did I do something wrong, sir?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did I do something wrong, for father to send me away?"

Carlton-Jones thought back to Dr Blake's letter about his son. That he had very recently lost his mother, that he had been in trouble at his local school and that he was a busy man and his son needed to learn to be independent. All in all, he couldn't say that the boy had done something wrong.

"I think your father thinks this is the right thing for you, so you can learn to be the best you can be, Blake," he pushed open a door. "Down here you will find the classrooms for all your lessons ..." They walked through corridors, past rooms, laboratories for science, the changing rooms for games and the refectory, where he would eat his meals with the other boys. Finally, after a whirlwind tour which left Lucien lost and confused they found themselves at the Sanatorium.

"Matron," he knocked and pushed open the door to a small office, "this is Lucien Blake, Junior Dormitory, please."

Matron, a middle-aged woman, dark hair streaked with a little silver, stood up and held out her hand.

"Nice to meet you Master Blake," she offered a small smile to the clearly bewildered boy.

Lucien shook her hand as he had been taught to.

"Leave you to it," the Headmaster turned on his heel and in a swoop of his gown he was gone.

Lucien's shoulders dropped, in relief, and he relaxed his grip on his cap.

'Poor lad,' she thought, 'looks completely overwhelmed.' "Come on, Master Blake," she touched his shoulder gently, "let's go and show you your bed, where you can put your things. Then I'll show you the bathrooms and run through the rules. Don't worry if you forget them, the other boys will help you," at least she hoped so. Perhaps she could introduce him to young George Fordham, she could usually trust him to keep an eye on the new boys.

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George Fordham did his best to help Blake settle in, and, although to the young doctor's son it seemed like the longest week of his life, he began to get used to the early rising, making his bed then racing down to prayers, then breakfast. The food, he found, was filling and reasonably tasty, though nothing like his mother's cooking. Occasionally he wondered what his father was eating as he had hastily engaged a housekeeper to cook and clean for him. Lessons followed and he started out well, determined to make his father proud of him, keeping his head down, as his old friend, Matthew, would say, and doing all that was asked of him.

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At the weekly staff meeting Carlton-Jones asked how the new boy was doing. Not out of any sense of particular care, he always asked the same question when a new pupil joined the school.

"No trouble, yet," the English master observed.

"Mathematics is good, above average I'd say," another noted. All in all he got good reports.

"Speaks French, did you know?" one of the few female teachers pointed out, "said his mother was French."

"Not in the information I received from his father," Carlton-Jones replied, "make sure he keeps it up, he lost her very recently."

"He's a clever lad," his house-master put in, "he could go far, if he keeps it up."

"Keep an eye on him," Carlton-Jones mused, "I've a feeling about this one, hidden depths."

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Saturdays were for writing letters home. Lucien wasn't sure what to write, the only letters he had written had been apologies for the pranks he had pulled or thank you notes for gifts he had received.

"Dear Father,"

Now what? Perhaps he should enquire after his health.

"I hope you are well."

Should he tell him he was working hard? Something about school ...

"I got top marks in mathematics this week ..."

He barely had a conversation with his father at home, now they expected him to write ... tell him what? He never seemed interested in anything he had to say, why would he want to read a letter?

"I am in a dormitory with nine other boys, they are nice. We play chess, sometimes, after lessons. Fordham is teaching me.

Your son,

Lucien."

Even to a ten year old he could see this was not much of a letter, but he didn't know what to say. Fordham had said that he was allowed to write to a friend as well, but he felt awkward about writing to Matthew. Perhaps Miss Nell Clasby would like to receive a letter.

"Dear Miss Clasby,"

He chewed the end of his pen,

"I hope you are well and following doctor's orders." His father always said she ignored his advice.

"The school father has sent me to is very big, and in a very old building. It's quite easy to get lost, I have done twice, on my way to lessons. We have to get up early, wash and dress, go to prayers then breakfast, before we start our lessons. I am doing well in my lessons, especially mathematics and science. I am ahead of everyone else in spoken French, but not writing it, Maman didn't teach me to write it.

I have a friend, George Fordham, though we use only our surnames here. He has shown me how to get around and is teaching me chess. He is in my dormitory, there are ten of us altogether. Some of the other boys have photographs of their families on their bedside lockers, I wish I had one of Maman and me.

Please say hello to Miss Agnes, I miss you both.

Love

Lucien."

It was better than the one he wrote to his father, maybe they would get better the more he wrote.

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The rest of the weekend was free for the boys to do as they wished, apart from Mass on Sunday morning. Lucien decided to use the time to get better acquainted with his surroundings inside and outside of the main building.

The sports fields were bounded by woods and, while not strictly out of bounds, being there was not encouraged. Like most boys Lucien enjoyed climbing trees. He and Matthew, and one or two others, would spend time in the trees round Lake Wendouree , climbing and building dens.

While Fordham was quite happy to show the new boys the ropes he found he enjoyed spending time with Blake. Both had lost their mothers, Fordham barely remembered his, but that aside, they had similar interests in science and, when Lucien has shown him how to set light to freshly made ink, they hadn't got into trouble. They had to write a short piece about how it worked, but neither minded that and a few other boys had joined them, effectively forming a little club.

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"So," Lucien looked round the little group sitting on the grass, "what happens after Mass?"

"We're free to do what we want, cricket, football ..." Victor Kirk shrugged and picked at the grass, "what did you do, at home?"

"Went to the lake, climbed trees, made dens ..." he watched a ladybird climb a blade of grass, " ... if my friends were around, otherwise watched Maman paint or went for a walk with her."

"Why do you call her 'Maman'?" Kirk asked.

"She was French," Blake bit the inside of his cheek to stop the threatened tears, "she taught me to speak it."

"My French is rubbish," Steven Southern muttered.

"I could help you," Lucien offered, "if you want."

The other boys looked at him, it was generally agreed that Blake was a good sort, and they were the kind that helped each other anyway.

"Mine's not good, either," Kirk joined in, "could you help all of us? I'm good at Latin."

Not having studied Latin in Ballarat this was one lesson Lucien was finding harder than the others. He considered the idea. He was practically bi-lingual and it would be good to keep up his mother's tongue. On discovering the library, he had taken a couple of French story books out, to improve his writing and spelling of the language ...

"Ok," he looked up and smiled, "how about we speak French, for an hour each Sunday, I could read you a story as well."

The others looked at him, then at each other, then nodded, "Ok," Southern agreed, "then an hour's Latin."

"Make it half, Southern," Fordham grinned, "unless you've found some stories written in Latin."

"Some of the myths," Southern pulled a small, tatty volume from his back pocket, "here, my father's. He gave it to me but I'm not good at reading it."

"Pass it here," Kirk held out his hand, "maybe ..." He flicked through the pages, "yep, we could do this. It's written for kids so the words aren't too hard."

So it was decided, they would spend time on Sundays conversing in French and Latin, climbing trees and building dens. As Lucien pointed out, there would be plenty who wouldn't be able to understand them so, eventually he hoped to be able to teach them some swear words.

"Not that Maman swore," he added hastily, "but if I can find the right book ..." he grinned, perhaps boarding school had it's good points, after all.

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My father used to light the freshly made ink at his school, in the 1940's.


	2. Chapter 2

"Blake?" Fordham called across the dormitory.

Lucien was sitting disconsolately on his bed re-reading the letter from his father. He had hoped to spend the term break with him, go and muck about with Lawson, tease Patrick Tyneman, but it would appear his father was otherwise occupied in Bendigo. He would have to stay at school.

"'Lo, Fordham," he grunted, "what's up?"

"What're you doin' for break? Goin' home?"

"Nah," he grimaced, "dad's away, gotta stay here."

"You can come with me, if you want," Fordham offered, shyly. "Dad says if I ever want to invite a mate, I can."

"You sure?" Lucien eyed him suspiciously.

"Aha," he nodded, "it's a bit boring on my own anyway," he admitted, "could teach you to ride, if you want."

"Well," Blake strung the word out. It would be better than staying at school, though he wasn't sure about riding, he'd got into trouble with his father, for throwing firecrackers at the junk man's horse. Old Mr Bartel had just taken him aside and talked to him, and carved him a little wooden horse. He kept it in his bedside locker drawer. He had felt so guilty that day, "ok, then."

"Right," Fordham brightened considerably. "I'll get school to send a telegram to my dad, you best do the same - to yours, that is."

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The two boys were put on the train by Greaves, and found a compartment to themselves.

"Dad, or one of his men will pick us up from Warburton station," Fordham told him, "he'll take us out to the house."

"So, what will we do, apart from riding?" Lucien asked.

"Fishin', you been fishing?"

"A bit," he grinned, "me 'n' Lawson used to go up to the creek, panning for gold and ticklin' trout."

"Any good?"

"At ticklin'? Not bad," Lucien nodded, "not so with the gold. Dad said it's all gone."

"Bugger," Fordham hissed.

"Yeah," he grinned back.

They ate the sandwiches the school cook had provided and Fordham told him that his father ran a successful fishing retreat. He owned a stretch of river and had decided that it would be a good business venture - to rent out little fishing huts and spots on the river. Anyone could go and spend as long as they liked there, all they had to do was tell him how many fish they had caught, but he had men to wander the river bank and keep an eye on the patrons, and advise them. Too small a fish had to be thrown back.

"I've got my favourite spot," he scrunched up the paper from his sandwich, "we can spend as long as we like there. Overnight in one of the huts, if you like."

"Really?" Lucien's eyes lit up.

Fordham nodded and grinned, it would be fun to share his holiday with Blake.

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They were greeted by a youngish man in canvas trousers, flannel shirt and waxed cotton jacket.

"Hello, Jackson," Fordham grinned, "this is my mate, Lucien Blake."

"Welcome home, Master George," Jackson smiled back, "and welcome to you, too, Master Lucien. I'm Jackson, one of the fish wardens."

"Nice to meet you, Jackson," Lucien extended his hand which was swallowed in a warm grip.

"Your father is at the house, the neighbour is over, Master George," Jackson dropped the suitcases into the trap and helped the boys up.

"See old Ned is still going," Fordham nodded at the horse pulling them along at a leisurely pace.

"Thought I'd bring him out for a walk," Jackson laughed, "he spends too much time eating and not much else."

Lucien watched as cars rumbled past them, not much faster, he thought, than old Ned, and he relaxed into the slower pace. His father had a car, a small one for house calls, but there were still horses and carts, pony and traps in Ballarat.

The house was single story, spread out side on to the river, not that it was particularly large but it was a family house, Lucien could see that. Further over, and across the river were two large two story buildings, one had stables for the ground floor and the other appeared to be accommodation of some sort. Lucien expected it was for the wardens and workers on the property. A car pulled away as they drew up,

"The neighbour," Jackson observed, "there's your father, Master George," he pointed to the front door.

"Hello dad," Fordham grinned, leaning in for a hug. Lucien instantly felt a pang of loss, this was what his mother would have done, and what his father didn't.

"Son, good term?"

"Yeah, thanks," he turned to Lucien, "dad, this is Lucien Blake."

Lucien stepped forward, and shook Mr Fordham's hand, "pleased to meet you, sir," he smiled.

"Good to meet one of Georgie's friends, Lucien," he smiled, "welcome to the homestead."

Mr Fordham was tall and thin, weather beaten face and bleached blond hair and beard. His expression was friendly and inviting and Lucien immediately felt it was a good idea, to take Fordham up on his offer. He wanted to return the invitation, but was unsure how his father would take to the idea of having another ten or eleven year old boy in the house.

"Master George!" a cry went up from behind his father, "oh my goodness, don't they feed you there."

"Hello Jane," Fordham laughed, "meet Lucien, he's come to stay. Maybe you can feed him up too. Lucien, this is Jane, she's our housekeeper, makes a great cake, any kind of cake."

Lucien grinned his greeting and noticed Fordham had reverted to using his first name so thought he would try to call him 'George' while they were away from school.

"Come on, into the kitchen, you poor half starved children," she put an arm round each boy, "Jackson will put your cases in your room. I've had an extra bed put in your room, Master George, for Master Lucien," she pushed them into the kitchen, a large open room with a huge table in the middle laden with cakes and biscuits and freshly baked bread.

With a big mug of hot chocolate in front of them and a slice of fruit cake the boys sat at the table and tucked in without any prompting.

Jane busied herself round the kitchen allowing them to eat before bombarding them with questions about how little food they were obviously getting, what they had learnt and what scrapes had they got into, that he hadn't told his father about.

"Nothing, Jane, honest," George laughed.

"Well, George," Lucien hesitated, "there was the case of the fish eyes ..."

"And what might that be, Master Lucien?" she pursed her lips, but her eyes twinkled.

"You know tapioca pudding?" he thought he was on safe ground with Jane, "well we, that is George, me and a couple of others, said it looked like frogspawn ..."

George pulled a face, Jane waited - arms folded.

"... w e ll..." he drew the word out, "we couldn't get frogspawn; wrong time of year; so we took the fish eyes from the lab and snuck 'em into some lads' puddings."

"Master George, Master Lucien!" she shrieked.

"They deserved it, Jane," George interrupted, "they were picking on some of the littler ones, pushing them into walls and stuff."

"One of them knocked a little lad into the swimming pool, and he couldn't swim," Lucien opened his eyes wide, "George here jumped in, fully clothed and dragged him out."

Jane sat down and shook her head. "He definitely did deserve it, young masters, and fish eyes don't hurt no one." She turned to George, "and well done to you too, lad, I'm proud of you."

"Thanks Jane," George blushed.

"How's the little lad?"

"Won't go near the pool, not even for swimming lessons," George shook his head sadly.

"Right," she stood up, "now, go and change, your togs are too smart for what you two will get up to round here. An hour 'til dinner, so, off you go." She shooed them out of the kitchen.

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Lucien looked round the room he was to share with George. It was a big room, plenty of space for the extra bed; bookshelves, a train-set in the corner, a ball and a constructor set.

"That's your bed," George shoved him over to where his suitcase sat, "you can put your stuff in those drawers, bottom ones are empty."

"Thanks," he undid the catches and both boys set to putting their things away and finding something more suitable to wear than the smart travelling suits they had dressed in that morning.

Lucien didn't have much in the way of 'rough' clothes, the kind of things he would have put on if he was going climbing trees with Matthew, his father had not allowed him to pack those things, and he had a vague suspicion they would be gone, put out into the garbage, when he finally went home. He chose the casual trousers and shirt he habitually wore after mass on Sunday.

"Tomorrow you can wear a pair of my bib and braces," George grinned, "doesn't matter if they get dirty."

Lucien smiled, it was the kind of thing Matthew would have done, to prevent him getting his trousers torn.

"Come on," George tugged his arm, "I'll show you round, the stables, the lake; well it's a large pond really;" he laughed, it was so good to have someone to share his free time with. The men were good, the wardens would let him tag along, but it was nice to have someone of his own age to muck about with, "there are trees there to climb, too."

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George and Lucien raced round the property. They chose the horses they would ride the following day, a nice quiet mare for Lucien and George had his own horse.

"That's the river, there," he pointed across the land, "the pond is over there, come on."

He raced off, leaving Lucien to chase after him.

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Jane called them in for dinner, told them to wash but there was no need to change. They sat in the kitchen round the table which was now groaning with roast ham, mounds of mashed potatoes, greens and carrots and a large jug of gravy. Lucien's mouth positively watered.

Jane laughed as the two boys and Mr Fordham tucked in and when they thought they could eat no more she produced a huge apple pie and a steaming jug of custard.

"That was marvellous, Jane," Lucien exhaled, "thank you."

"Good to see you eating properly, I'm sure they don't feed you at that school," she smiled and cleared away the plates.

"We eat well enough, Jane," George laughed, "we don't starve."

"Hmm..." she grunted, not convinced.

"So, Lucien," Mr Fordham had let them eat without asking too many questions, "George tells me your father is a doctor."

"Yes, sir, he is," Lucien nodded, "and police surgeon, sometimes."

"Busy man, then," he refilled his water glass.

"Always, he's in Bendigo, at the moment," Lucien offered this information by way of an explanation for his presence, "I expect he's working on a case, for the police."

"Ah," Mr Fordham nodded wisely, "well, glad to have you here, my boy, good for George."

"Thank you, sir, I'm glad to be here."

"We thought we'd go riding tomorrow, dad," George put in, "I've chosen Sal for Lucien, he doesn't ride."

"Sal'll look after you," Mr Fordham agreed, "good nag, doesn't spook."

"Right," Lucien smiled, "that's good then."

"Can we have a picnic, Jane?" George turned to the housekeeper, "please."

"Course you can, Master George," she grinned, already thinking of what she could put ready for them, that they could carry, "put the saddle bag on your horse."

"Right-ho," and so it was decided. The boys would be out most of the day, riding along the river, returning for dinner.

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Lucien woke and stretched, blinking in the early morning sunlight. It took a moment for him to remember where he was then he grinned. He turned over to see if George was awake.

"Ha, you're awake at last!" his friend grinned, "thought you were going to sleep the day away."

"Mornin'," Lucien grinned, "can I smell bacon?"

"Sure can," George laughed, "come on, let's see what else is on offer."

And so began a holiday of riding along the river, Lucien soon got the hang of it, and enjoyed it enough to break into a trot every now and again. They had picnics, climbed the trees, hung upside down from the branches, bathed in the 'pond' and at the end of the day fell in to bed, filled with one of Jane's large dinners. Mr Fordham would join them for dinner, ask about their day but otherwise they were free to do as they pleased.

"Dad," George asked one evening, "could Lucien and I do an overnighter, in one of the huts?"

"Don't see why not," his father leaned back in his chair, "usual spot?"

"Yes, if that's ok with you," the boy nodded.

"I trust you to be sensible, son," Mr Fordham warned, "don't want to write to Dr Blake and tell him his son has gone missing."

Lucien wasn't sure his father would be too bothered, but he liked the idea that someone else did care.

"Dad," George laughed, "we'll be fine, goin' to do some evening fishing."

"I'll send Jackson to check your primus has enough fuel."

"Thanks, dad."

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Both horses were saddled and bedrolls were secured to the back and saddlebags filled with food from Jane and a water canteen, which they would refill from a stream by the hut. Each boy carried a set of fishing rods in a bag over their shoulders and set off gladly.

As they rode George told him of nights he had spent on his own at the hut, always wondering if he would have a mate to share it with. They passed a few men fishing and wardens patrolling the bank, helping land or return fish to the water if they were too small. The stopped around lunchtime, according to their stomachs, and ate the sandwiches and cake, Jane had put ready for them. There was an apple each and a wedge of cheese. They washed it down with cool water and then lay on their backs gazing up and the trees that hung over the bank.

They climbed trees and George pointed out the extent of his father's land, and the neighbours property.

"He and dad have a long standing war," George grumbled, "over the boundary."

"Isn't there enough land to share?" Lucien queried, looking down the river to where George pointed the boundary out.

"Absolutely," his friend agreed, "plenty. But Mr Norris has always said that part there," he pointed over to a line of trees in the distance, "is his."

"Where does your land end?"

"Past that line of trees, can you just see that hill?"

"Yes," Lucien squinted, "is that it?"

"Base of it," George clambered down, "it's not much more, but dad says it's the principle of the thing. We don't actually do anything with it, and if he asked nicely dad has said he would be willing to sell it to him, at a reasonable price. "

"But Mr Norris won't pay?"

"Nope, not for his own land, he says," George took the reins of his horse, "come on."

"What does he want to do with that bit of land?" Lucien asked as they slowly made their way to the hut.

"Not sure," George mused, "nothing grows there, it's no good for livestock. He could build on it, I suppose," he sighed, "but what he would build I don't know. He has a big house and farms over the other side."

As they went on George told his friend of some of the tricks Mr Norris had got up to, to discredit his father, including accusing him of murdering his wife, George's mother. Lucien turned, open mouthed, and saw his friend's eyes fill with tears.

"Mum had a riding accident," he sniffed, "she was out alone, nothing unusual there, and the horse was spooked. One of the men found her and got her back to the house, but, by the time the doc got to her she had passed. Severe head injury."

"I'm sorry," Lucien whispered, "you were only a baby, weren't you?"

"Nearly two, so I don't remember her much," George inhaled, "but I have a photograph, and there are plenty around the house."

"I saw, she was very pretty."

"Yeah, she was."

They rode on in silence for a while.

"My mum died of appendicitis," Lucien muttered, "dad says, on the operating table."

"Sorry, mate," George whispered.

"Thanks."

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The hut was small but well maintained. There were two camp beds that they put their bedrolls on, a primus stove, billycan and frying pan, bowl to wash in, or wash the dishes, of which there were two tin plates and two tin mugs.

"We use the primus outside," George informed him, "safer that way."

"What's the spade for?" Lucien eyed the tool propped up in a corner by the door.

"We dig a hole for the toilet," George wrinkled his nose, "fill it in when we leave."

"Oh," Lucien hadn't thought about that part of looking after themselves. "Right."

"Also bury any food waste," George unrolled his bedding and sat down. "What d'ye think?"

"Bonzer," Lucien grinned and sat opposite him.

George bent over and pulled a wooden box from under his bed, "food goes in here," he pulled his saddle bag over, "stops any wildlife helping themselves."

"Wildlife!" Lucien's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Don't worry," George laughed, "they can't smell it enough to come looking, and it's not good for them so this box has to be kept closed. Most things are scared of humans anyway, possums mainly."

The boys took out their fishing rods and decided to try and catch their supper, even though Jane had packed pork pie, cheese, fruit, slices of the previous night's ham and two big pieces of the apple pie.

It was a while before either of them got a bite, but the peace and quiet made Lucien feel relaxed. He was just dozing off when George nudged him.

"Net," he whispered, as if the fish could hear him, "got a nibble."

His rod twitched and bent down to the water as he gently started to wind the reel until a fish appeared.

"Good, just the right size," George grinned as Lucien slipped the keepnet under the catch. "One more will give us a good supper, along with some bread from the pack." He turned, a sudden thought about his town bred friend. "You are ok, about gutting the fish, aren't you?"

"Absolutely, me 'n' Matthew do it all the time at home," Lucien nodded, "we have a penknife and build a little fire, roast 'em on a stick."

George breathed a sigh of relief, wouldn't do for him to have to rouse him from a faint, he thought.

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They sat back and rubbed their full bellies. Three fish had been expertly gutted by Lucien and perfectly fried in the pan by George. They had added bread to the meal and finished off with the apple pie, washing the whole lot down with ice cold spring water.

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After watching the stars until late, the boys slept until the sun was fully up. They hadn't changed, just shed their boots and shuffled down into their sleeping bags fully clothed. True to his word, George had lent Lucien a pair of his bib and brace overalls and he had found them most comfortable.

Lucien woke first and stretched. Mindful of what George had said about wildlife, he tapped his boots upside down before putting them on. He peered outside, and finding no one about, in the way of early fishermen, he took the space and went to see to his bodily functions. Feeling more comfortable, he went to the river to splash his face with water and rinse out his mouth. George had told him not to spit toothpaste or drop soap into the river, it wasn't good for the fish. The cold water woke him fully and he looked round. Floating towards him was a dead fish.

"Odd," he muttered to himself, "George!" he called back into the hut, "George, there's a dead fish in the river!"

"Wha'" a bleary eyed boy stuck his head out of the door, "damn! Haul it out, with the net," he instructed, stepping into his boots and going to join Lucien.

They examined the fish but could find nothing wrong with it.

"D'ye think it was thrown back?" Lucien asked, "though it looks a good size."

"Size is fine," George agreed. He thought for a moment. "Lucien, I know that we were planning on spending the day fishing, but do you mind if we pack up and walk part of the way back?"

"No, but why?"

"One dead fish may be nothing, I want to see if there are any more," he shuffled his feet in the dirt.

"You think someone is up to something," Lucien didn't fancy fishing for his dinner if the fish were dying in the river, they may not be safe to eat.

"Could be," George turned to the hut, "it's happened before, to discredit dad."

"You mean like accusing him of ..." he looked at the ground.

"Yeah, and blocking up the river so it started to dry up," his friend grimaced, "he did that one night, when dad was away in town. Jackson discovered it the following day. It took him and most of the other men into the night to clear the blockage. We lost quite a lot of stock that week."

"So, he could be killing the fish?"

"God, I hope not," George lit the primus stove, "come on, can't go walking on an empty stomach."

They fried some bacon and eggs, which broke, but scrambled in the bacon fat it was a feast for a king, Lucien said. Mopping up the remains with the rest of the bread, and washing it down with water from the little stream that fed the river, they then washed the dishes, stowed everything back in the saddlebags that would go, and set off, leading the horses, along the river bank.

"Do we need to collect the dead fish?" Lucien asked, spotting one floating by.

"Good idea," George threw him the keepnet, "we'll store them in that."

"What would kill them?"

"Poison, or they could have been caught by rod and thrown back," George looked in the mouth of the one they had must found. "Nah, poison, I would guess."

"How do we know?"

"Dad can test the dead ones," George shrugged as if it was obvious.

They had quite a haul when they met up with Jackson.

"But you've had no ill effects from what you ate last night?" he asked, concerned.

"No," Lucien shook his head, "you ok, George?"

"Fine," George agreed, "so, any poisoning must have been done further up stream."

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There were few fishermen that day, so Jackson redirected them to the lake, to fish there, and it was there that they discovered the source of the poisoning.

"No algae," Jackson scratched his head. "There was some algae yesterday, as there should be ... copper does that," he pursed his lips, "destroys the water for the fish." He squatted down.

"Look, they are coming to the surface, for air," he stirred his finger in the water, "but how did it get there?"

"Mr Norris?" George suggested.

"That's a bit obvious," Lucien muttered.

"He's in Melbourne," Jackson stood up, "went yesterday, said he was going to get the land dispute sorted once and for all."

"So, who?" George.

"Come on, let's get the horses seen to and you two back to the house," Jackson grinned and ruffled his hair, making it even more untidy.

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Mr Fordham looked at the two boys and the net of dead fish.

"From what you say, Jackson," he sighed, "I don't need to test, copper sulphate poisoning."

"Want me to flush through, sir?" Jackson asked.

"Better, take the fish out of the lake, as much as you can, put them into tank one, and flush from the other tank." Mr Fordham nodded.

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For the next couple of days the lake and river were flushed and patrolled. Lucien and George were confined to the main grounds round the house, the stables and the trees round the lake.

They were sitting high up in the trees, just before dinner, talking about how they could help. Lucien was all for staying out all night in the trees, keeping watch.

George thought about this, they would have to sneak out, after dinner, make sure they had dark clothes on, so they weren't seen.

"Dad wont' be too pleased," he mused, "if he catches us."

"But," Lucien reasoned, "nothing else has happened, too many wardens around, I suppose. If it is Mr Norris, then why hasn't he been over to argue over the land, again?"

They sat on the beds, after dinner, discussing it. Mr Fordham had seemed out of sorts at dinner, George said he got like this, when someone tried to spoil things.

"You've got a great home," Lucien soothed, "I want to help, to do something. You have been kind enough to ask me to stay, it's the least I can do."

"Ok," George sighed and reached under his bed, "I guess we'll need these," he held up a pair of binoculars and a torch. "Suppose we watch the holding tank, if anything is going to happen it will be there."

Lucien grinned, "right, we need to wait until your father has gone to bed."

"Have you done this before," George asked, warily, "snuck out at night."

"Might have," Lucien rolled his eyes, "occasionally."

George had a feeling he didn't want to know any details, but was sure he hadn't done anything illegal, or at least he hoped so.

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It was easy to sneak out. They slid open the bedroom window and crouched down until they were opposite the lake. Mr Fordham's light was out so they assumed he was asleep, and ran across the grass to the trees. They were so familiar with the area that climbing in the dark presented no problems, and soon they were perched high up out of sight, facing the holding tank.

"What if someone drops copper sulphate into the tank, tonight?" Lucien whispered.

"See that pipe, on the clean water tank?" George pointed at a hose coming from half way up the side. Lucien nodded. "Well, it's attached to the holding tank. If the poison is dropped into the holding tank, we open the valve to drain it and let the clean water in. It will dilute it enough to prevent the fish from dying. There will be enough water left in the tank for the fish to survive until it fills up."

"I see," Lucien thought, "so we do that and go for your father?"

"Yes," George nodded, "whoever is doing it will be too strong for us to take on ourselves."

That was the plan. Keep watch, if anyone dropped anything into the tank do the drain and refill and one of them would go for Mr Fordham. It all seemed quite simple, really.

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Lucien had the binoculars trained on the tank, it was his turn while George dozed. He checked his watch by the light of the moon and nudged his friend.

"There," he whispered, pointing to a figure climbing up the ladder.

"Right," George took the binoculars, "it looks like Jenkins, he's relatively new." He watched, "he's dropping something in, now he's getting down ... and heading to the bunkhouse."

Lucien shifted, ready to climb down.

"Wait," George put his hand out, "... ok ... now."

They ran, crouched down towards the holding tank and round to the ladder.

"Hey," George whispered, "look." He bent down and lifted a packet off the floor. Lucien shone the torch, on the paper and whistled.

"Copper sulphate."

George stepped back, onto a stick, that snapped, loudly.

"Bugger!"

Jenkins turned round and saw the torch light go out. Realising he had been seen he charged back towards the small figures, relieved that it was two children ... he could take them down easily.

"See to the fish!" Lucien yelled then bent down and charged head first at Jenkins, winding him and knocking him clean off his feet. He lay, gasping for breath on the floor with an angry ten year old sitting astride him.

"Gerroff!" Jenkins finally found the breath to bawl at the boy, "gerroff you little git!"

George was turning valves and screaming for help at the top of his voice. Lights came on in the bunkhouse and the house as wardens, Jane and Mr Fordham all woke to the noise.

Lucien was struggling to keep Jenkins on the ground and had resorted to pounding his chest with his fists. Jenkins reached up and pushed against Lucien's shoulders, wriggling until he unseated the boy. Unfortunately, for him, as he did so and Lucien toppled backwards the boy brought his feet up and kicked him, under his chin, dazing him, nearly rendering him unconscious.

"George! Lucien!" Mr Fordham's voice rang out over through the air, "what's going on!"

"We got him, Dad!" George yelled running round to open the clean water valve, "he was putting copper sulphate in the water!"

Jackson and two other wardens were running over on to help George and one to hold down Jenkins.

There was a flurry of activity, the adults took over the fish tank and clean water, and Jenkins, Jane took the boys into the house, to the kitchen for hot chocolate while they waited for George's father to come and find out what was going on.

When he did arrive he was pink from exertion, his robe torn and his hair sticking up.

"It's all sorted," he sat down and accepted the hot chocolate from Jane, "now, boys, how did you work it out?"

"Well, dad," George looked at Lucien, who nodded, "it was Lucien's idea. We knew it was happening up here, you said as much when we found that the algae was going in the lake. So, it had to be at night ..."

"... it would be seen, during the day, sir," Lucien took over, "so, I reckoned, if we hid in the trees at night, and watched, we might see something, and we did."

They both waited, sure they were going to get a thorough dressing down for being so rash, but,

"Well, even though I don't like you climbing trees at night," Mr Fordham pursed his lips, "I think I shall overlook it this time. Boys," he looked from one to the other, "you could have got hurt, you should have told me what you thought, I could have taken it from there, and, Lucien," he stared at the Dr Blake's somewhat resourceful son, "taking down a fully grown man, that was dangerous."

"I know, sir, but ... I suppose it was spur of the moment, I wasn't really thinking." Lucien took the stare and returned it, "good job I play rugby, sir."

"Indeed it is," Mr Fordham couldn't help but smile. "Now, to bed with you, for what is left of the night."

"Are you going to question Jenkins, dad?" George stood up.

"In the morning," his father nodded, "well, later." He looked from one to the other, "and, yes, you can be there," he added with a resigned sigh.

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After a good breakfast of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread the boys were allowed into the study to listen to Jenkins' reason for poisoning the fish. At first he blustered about how little boys should be kept under control, that he was checking the tank ... until Mr Fordham placed the copper sulphate packet on the desk.

"That's not mine," he stammered.

"It fell out of your pocket," George stepped forward, "when you got off the ladder."

"Yes it did," Lucien also stepped forward, nodding emphatically.

"Now, Jenkins," Mr Fordham leant forward, his forearms on his desk, "why would you poison the fish? If the business closes then you will lose your job."

"Liza," Jenkins muttered.

"Liza?" Mr Fordham brought his brows together. "Oh, Liza," he seemed to understand, "what about her?"

"You won't acknowledge her," Jenkins hissed.

"I speak to her, when I see her," Mr Fordham wasn't seeing what he was getting at, "common decency. She's the daughter of a friend."

"She's not just the daughter of a friend, though, is she?" Jenkins persisted, "that friend is a 'special' friend isn't she?"

"I have known Liza's mother since we were children," George's father smiled, "if that's what you mean, but she is just a friend, and I hope always will be."

"Liza's father ..."

The light dawned,

"Liza's father ran off when she was a baby," Mr Fordham sighed, sadly, "so, yes, I looked after them."

"She said you were like a father to her," Jenkins slumped into a chair.

"Anna, Liza's mother, refused to do anything about her husband," Mr Fordham sat back and steepled his fingers, "divorce him, citing abandonment. I suggested it, but she thought it was shameful, believed, and still believes it was her fault he ran off. He died, during the war. I have tried to court her, but she wants to stay just friends, I think she is wary of loving again - understandable." He sat up and inhaled, "but, I am not Liza's father, and, even if I was, what has it got to do with you?"

"I wanted you gone," Jenkins grunted, "then she could move on, forget you. We could get married."

"So you thought if you ruined the business I would sell the land and move away?" He shook his head, "son, it doesn't work like that. This is my home, my son's home. It's also my memories of my wife, George's mother, we had begun to build up this business together, and I have done it for her and George. We," Mr Fordham stood up and put his arm round his son, "are not going anywhere."

"I think Liza will marry who she wants to marry," Jane stepped forward, having stayed in case she needed to take the boys out, "when she wants to, or not, and it will have nothing to do with Mr Fordham, who she chooses. Very much her own woman, that one. She has plenty of time, before she settles down."

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Mr Fordham thought long and hard about what he wanted to do with Jenkins. He was relieved it was nothing to do with Norris, they would work out their differences, one day. Jenkins had lived in Warburton all his life, had no idea how the wider world worked, perhaps he needed to move around a bit, see a bit more of life before he settled down. He could have had him prosecuted but decided against it. He and Jackson discussed it, after thanking the boys for their help and bravery.

"Your father should be proud of you, Lucien," Mr Fordham ruffled his unruly blond curls, "I shall write and tell him how much I value your assistance in this matter, and that I shall be more than pleased to welcome you here again, should you wish to come."

"That's very kind of you, sir," Lucien blushed, "I would like to come back, sometime. Perhaps I can persuade father to allow George to come to Ballarat one holiday, if he'd like to."

Mr Fordham grinned and sent them off to climb trees or fish or ride, whatever was their pleasure.

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They watched Jenkins walk down the drive, away from the homestead. George's father had given him enough money to get himself to Melbourne and join the army. He had told him to go and see the world, then, when he came back he could make up his mind what he wanted to do, and who he wanted to do it with. Liza may have married by then, or moved on to work in the city or another town.

"...but, son," he clapped him on the shoulder, "there are plenty more fish in the sea."

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Lucien sat on his bed in the dormitory and read the letter from his father. While not overtly full of praise for his son, he did say he was glad he had acquitted himself well and that he was welcome at the Fordham's should he be asked again.

The letter from Miss Nell Clasby was full of praise for his bravery and she enclosed a whole pound note to spend on a treat for himself and his friend, next time they were able to get into the city.


End file.
